Sven's Uninvited Guest

I lift my gaze beyond the channel,
where Kessingland lingers in memory,
while Holland’s fog curls around Zandvoort— 
windswept dunes, lager tins, crisps,
the salt and bite of air carving my cheeks raw. 

The flat sits empty, waiting for laughter to spill in,
for voices to rise, thick with stories. 
But the nightshift is stirring— 
from the reeds, a figure waddles into view. 

We bow in greeting. 
A moment’s pause—then the inevitable. 

Why is it always this way? 
The same dull dance,
the casual gaslighting into trysts 
by uninvited hands, by half-lit strangers. 
Do I wear some neon sign? 
Some flickering plea, selling me 
as an object of desire? 

I seek a time, a place, and send them off,
knowing I will not follow. 
They must know, must suspect— 
this is not who I am, not what I do. 

I wish I was home. 
Past the Strait of Dover, but where is home? 
This will happen again, all too soon,
wherever I go—wherever I pretend to belong.